The Tesseract pulsed in Markus's hand like a heart with no body. Its glow not just bright, but alive. Wrapped in the hum of reality itself, it radiated a presence far more intricate than he expected.
Markus narrowed his eyes as Reality Domination peeled back the veil.
It wasn't just a conduit.
It was a well.
The Tesseract wasn't holding power, it was producing it. Every second, its crystalline structure churned out Divinity like the sun gave off heat. Not borrowed energy. Not cosmic inheritance. Generation. Pure, unfiltered divine essence.
The number etched itself clearly in his mind: around 5,000 Divinity points per day.
He stood in silence a while longer, letting the realization settle. Then, without ceremony, Markus willed a portion of his Divinity forward, 15,000 Divinity points melted from his reservoir. The glow in his palm deepened, then split, gently, like a candle passing its flame.
A second Tesseract coalesced in the air beside him. Identical. Unstable, perhaps, but sufficient for the part of the Plot of MCU. Loki would get his toy.
Markus put the replica in a in the original's place and began the slow process of absorbing the space stone. Carefully. Gradually. Forcing too much would trigger ripple effects across the space. For now, he would take it piece by piece, layered divinity absorbed, measured, and metabolized through his growing core.
He vanished the same way he arrived.
Markus reappeared within the high atrium of his castle in Noctorrius Primus, the realm that bent to his will like a favored cloak. As he moved through the massive marble corridor, his steps echoed softly beneath vaulted ceilings trimmed with starlight and shadow. Outside the windows, the black forests of the realm swayed with a rhythm known only to the void.
"Onyx," he said aloud, voice calm.
Her projection flickered into place before him, full height, dressed in her field attire, a matte black suit threaded with silver fiber.
"Yes, sir?"
"The Tesseract is no longer in SHIELD's custody. I've begun integration."
Onyx's expression didn't shift, but her voice sharpened. "Understood. That will place your regeneration and construct parameters beyond current dimensional thresholds."
"Exactly. We'll monitor the thresholds, but for now, continue expanding the recruitment for Guardian Angels."
"Parameters?"
"Homeless veterans. Prioritize urban centers with high densities, Los Angeles, Houston, New York, Chicago, Detroit. Background checks are unimportant. Psychological and physical traumas, irrelevant. We'll correct them."
"There are over ten thousand in the system."
"Good. I want five thousand in the first wave. Physical restoration, reconditioning, tactical fusion. The rest will follow."
"As you wish."
The projection flickered and disappeared.
Markus exhaled slowly and walked through the marble archway that led to the throne room at the heart of the citadel.
The door was already open.
Inside, bathed in the pale, eternal light of the event horizon of the realm's blackhole, stood Seraphiel. Her long hair drifted with no wind. The robe she wore shimmered like distant stars seen through water. She turned to him with a small smile, subservient, quiet, and waiting.
Markus stepped inside, finally allowing himself a brief exhale.
There would be time enough for conquest. But not now.
Years slipped by in silence, though silence in Noctorrius Primus was a relative thing. Markus had spent it mostly suspended, body still but mind alive, threads of cosmic geometry unraveling before him like pages from a divine manuscript. The Tesseract pulsed gently at the core of that space, its radiance growing fainter by the day as he slowly siphoned its essence.
By the end of the fourth week, the last of the cube's unique signature was folded into him.
The absorption was complete.
His issues with Divinity, were now problems of the past. The Space Stone hadn't just expanded his reach; it had rewritten his understanding of dimensional command. Teleportation, distortion, gateway traversal, these were no longer feats. They were impulses.
Markus opened his eyes from his latest absorption session. Time dilation between Marvel and Noctorrius Primus was adjusted to be one to five hundred in this period. A month in Marvel has translated to forty one years here. He spent these years in absorption of the space stone and indulgence in Seraphiel.
And stepped through the fabric of space without taking a single step.
He reappeared in the command hub of the Guardian Angels compound, its wide training fields and steel lined halls stretching across an isolated landscape somewhere in rural Nevada. Modular barracks dotted the valley. Armories. Simulation arenas. Rows of armored transports gleaming under a clear sky. The facility was surrounded by an invisible perimeter, technologically and magically guarded, like a fortress carved into existence itself.
Onyx met him at the center court.
"All five thousand are here," she said. "Recruited, housed, and conditioned to the limit of our non invasive protocols. Ages range between twenty nine to seventy one. Combat branches include Army Rangers, Navy SEALs, Force Recon, Delta, Green Berets, foreign legionnaires, intelligence assets, black ops, and dozens of unlisted designations. Ninety percent were classified as medically unfit before we recruited them."
Markus stepped into the open courtyard.
He looked across the assembled men. Silent. Still. Watching.
He didn't raise his voice.
He didn't need to.
Reality Domination bled outward like warmth from a fire. One breath, one thought, and the energy washed over them all. Each man felt it, not like a force pushing in, but like pain leaving. Scar tissue vanished. Injuries dissolved. Bones fused. Muscles realigned. Youth regained
Then came the deeper process. Subjugation, as gentle as it was thorough, moved through memory and muscle. Traumas excised. Loyalty hard coded. Purpose reintroduced like an old uniform they hadn't worn in years. Their knowledge streamed into Markus like rivers into a reservoir. Terrain adaptability, unit strategies, joint operations, unconventional warfare, psychological warfare, exfiltration, maritime assault. Languages, tools, combat doctrine, myth, superstition, and the sound of bullets in wind.
He took all of it.
Refined it.
And gave it back.
Each man now stood at precisely 1.90 meters. Uniformly powerful, perfectly aligned. Eyes focused. Hearts steady. Fearless. Tireless. Bound to the core.
The total number of Guardian Angels reached seven thousand.
And they were ready.
The world noticed.
Whispers moved through the security sectors of major states. NATO command structures asked questions in closed meetings. China's Ministry of State Security circulated internal warnings. French intelligence tried, and failed, to map Eden Armament's global reach. Even MI6 raised an alert level after two former SAS operatives, now Angels, were spotted executing a hostage extraction faster than their own quick response units.
Back at the heart of SHIELD, or what remained of it, a strained meeting unfolded.
Nick Fury sat behind a polished desk, more figurehead than director now. The office still bore his name, but the walls no longer answered only to him. Maria Hill sat to his left, tired but stone faced. Coulson to the right, ever the composed middleman.
The Guardian Angels had come up again.
"Seven thousand," Fury muttered, his good eye scanning the file. "Standardized gear, global presence. Private contracts in volatile regions. No confirmed flag. No identifiable doctrine. And not one operative has ever spoken to press."
"They're mostly former U.S. military," Coulson added. "Mostly veterans. Homeless, off the grid types. It's not a coincidence."
Hill leaned forward. "They don't act like a mercenary group. Too clean. Too surgical. No collateral. No chatter. No deviation. Whoever's training them isn't just building soldiers. They're building myths."
Fury said nothing.
Because he already suspected.
Markus Tenebris.
But again, no supernatural presence. No paper trail. No digital tags. And nothing illegal.
Not yet.
He tossed the report onto the desk and looked at them both. "We monitor as much as we can and wait." He turned to Hill, "and under no circumstance we contact him or his affiliates!"
Fury was planning for future while failing to notice 70% of SHIELD's infrastructure no longer answered to him. Hydra had slithered into every gap left by scandal and collapse. They wore fresh names, fresh ranks, and claimed neutrality, but their eyes gleamed with ambition.
Markus was already mapping them, each tendril, each head of the serpent. Through agents, operations, memories, words whispered in hallways, he followed their paths. And one by one, he started to mold them.
The process was subtle.
Influence first.
Obedience second.
Control last.
Within months, they would not be Hydra anymore.
They would be his.
As for Fury?
He would remain in place. A figurehead director.
Whether he'd be replaced later or not… Markus hadn't decided yet.
It would depend on the world.
And his mood.
Three years passed, quietly. It was already third month of 2008. The world spun forward as it always had, blind to the fact that its axis had subtly shifted.
Eden Armaments had grown into a juggernaut.
What had once begun as a modest competitor to the military industrial complex now stood unchallenged atop it. Stark Industries, long the darling of high tech defense, was reduced to second place. Oscorp faded from relevance. Hammer Tech had become a punchline.
Eden didn't just produce weapons.
It defined them.
From handguns carried by police departments in dozens of countries to advanced ballistic missile systems integrated into international defense networks, Eden's reach was total. Its manufacturing footprint spanned five continents. Its R&D division operated in subterranean labs that never stopped working, never seen. Its materials were stronger and lighter than anything on the market and no one could replicate them.
Each product bore a name not of marketing committees or focus groups but of scripture.
An old world made new in steel and flame.
The pistols issued to elite strike teams and private clients were sleek, matte black sidearms:
Judith: Compact, .45 caliber, with anti jamming and self cleaning mechanisms.
Boaz: A double action pistol chambered in 10mm, favored by law enforcement for its perfect balance.
Malachi: A concealed carry micro frame weapon with fingerprint locked biometrics.
Rifles followed biblical bloodlines:
Eliab: A modular assault rifle system, able to shift from urban warfare to jungle combat with minimal adjustment.
Leviathan: A long range anti materiel rifle, devastating at 4km with armor piercing payloads.
Samson: A semi automatic shotgun designed for breaching and CQB, named for its raw kinetic output.
Machine guns and heavier systems:
Goliath: A belt fed automatic weapon capable of suppressing entire units.
Maccabees: A dual caliber light machine gun used by Guardian Angels during peacekeeping deployments.
And the missiles...
That was where the poetry turned darker.
Each missile system was named not for precision, but judgment.
Babel: A tactical cruise missile used for demolishing hardened bunkers.
Azazel: A next generation surface to air interceptor with adaptive trajectory control.
Abaddon: A heavy payload ICBM, able to carry nuclear war heads.
Gomorrah: A bunker buster with seismic displacement payloads. Capable of collapsing an entire city.
Revelation: A classified orbital weapon under R&D, rumored to house guidance systems.
The marketing was clean, the branding divine. Nations bought them not just for war, but for reassurance. Eden Armaments was power that behaved. It delivered not just weaponry, but the illusion of stability.
And behind the veil of corporate polish, Markus's reach extended further than any Pentagon contractor ever dared.
Hydra, once the festering underbelly of SHIELD, had not simply been dismantled. It had been absorbed. Their top lieutenants and hidden cell leaders were now disciples, their names forgotten and replaced by designations handed to them during indoctrinations.
Markus had not simply rewritten their orders.
He had rewritten their souls.
Subjugation, in tandem with his evolving divine essence, had transcended its subtle roots. These were no longer whispers in minds. They were commandments etched into the deepest folds of loyalty and belief.
Hydra operatives didn't merely follow Markus.
They worshipped him.
He was their redeemer. Their god. Their salvation incarnate. Prayers addressed to him, though never officially displayed, existed in thousands of secret rooms, written into boards, onto mirrors, etched into the internal circuitry of forgotten servers.
Their old motto, "cut off one head and two shall take its place," had changed.
Now, they said, "where He walks, all heads bow."
Former hydra scientists now built Eden Armament's propulsion systems. Former black site interrogators now trained Guardian Angels. Cyberneticists who once schemed in shadows now worked under Onyx's AI guidance, building tools to monitor and rewrite systems in seconds.
The entire shadow infrastructure of global conspiracy had been reshaped into a single organ, one that beat in time with Markus's will.
And yet... he remained quiet.
No proclamations.
No empire announced.
Just precision, growth, and silence.
On the surface, Eden Armament was a marvel of efficiency. Clean contracts. Fair wages. Strict rules of engagement. Even humanitarian involvement in disaster zones. Guardian Angels airlifting flood victims, securing schools in war zones.
But beneath it all, in the sublayers of global influence, They were a sovereign state without borders.
And Markus was not just its CEO.
He was its God.
Tony Stark was not a happy man.
Over the past year, the name "Eden Armaments" had become the bane of his boardroom meetings. At least on the ones he somehow been present. The black cloud over every press conference. They were everywhere government contracts, military showcases, civilian security expos. From handguns to hypersonic missiles, Eden had carved out a domain that once belonged solely to Stark Industries.
Worse still, their branding was maddeningly elegant. Stark's tech was sleek, revolutionary, theatrical. But Eden's? It was biblical. Gravitas wrapped in scripture. It felt less like competition and more like a crusade.
And Stark hated losing.
So today, he was in Afghanistan. Not to chase ghosts or play politics, just to remind the world what he could do. The Jericho missile was his rebuttal, a thunderclap fired into the desert skies.
Dressed in his suit and sunglasses, he stood atop a small sand crusted hill, the camera crews catching the perfect angle. The Jericho rose like a titan, split mid air into dozens of targeted submunitions, then rained fire with the precision of a conductor leading an orchestra of destruction.
The shockwave rolled through the mountains.
Tony turned to the gathered military officers with a smirk. "Is it better to be feared or respected? I say… is it too much to ask for both?"
The applause was real. So were the contracts that would follow.
But celebration was short lived.
On the way back to base, his convoy was ambushed. Stark's world exploded into fire, shrapnel, and blood. When he came to, he was no longer a billionaire playboy. He was a prisoner. Somewhere in a cave. With a car battery wired into his chest.
While news of the abduction made international headlines, another name filled the airwaves with a different kind of spectacle.
Markus Tenebris was scheduled to appear that evening on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno, one of the most watched late night programs. The booking had been arranged weeks in advance, but the timing now felt almost theatrical.
And Markus? He was never one to shy from a stage.
The crowd was already cheering when Jay Leno leaned toward the camera with his trademark grin.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, his voice carrying the enthusiasm of the moment, "my next guest is being called the most brilliant mind of the century… especially when it comes to destruction. Please welcome the founder of Eden Armaments and the man behind Guardian Angels. Markus Tenebris!"
The band kicked in with a smooth riff as the studio doors opened.
Markus entered like a thunderclap in human form. Dressed in a deep navy blue suit tailored to contain his titanic frame, with a blood red silk tie resting sharp and perfect against his crisp white shirt. His silver white hair was drawn back into a tight, elegant pony tail, and his beard, short, sculpted, and aristocratic, framed a face that seemed carved from stone. At 2.5 meters tall, he dwarfed every person in the studio, yet moved with the poise of a monarch visiting foreign soil.
The audience didn't know whether to cheer or stare.
Markus gave a slight nod as he approached the desk, each step measured and smooth. He offered Jay a firm handshake, his gloved fingers wrapped in dark leather and lowered himself into the guest seat with deliberate grace. The chair creaked slightly under his mass but held.
Jay leaned back slightly with mock awe. "I just wanna say," he said, gesturing toward Markus with both hands, "this is the first time we've ever had to reinforce the studio floor before an interview."
Laughter rippled through the audience.
Markus offered a small smile, voice low and cultured, with the quiet cadence of someone who'd studied ancient poetry more recently than most had read a newspaper. "Apologies. I travel light, but gravity and I… have a complicated relationship."
The audience chuckled again, some nervously.
"So, tell me," Jay said, flipping a card playfully in his hand. "Who is Markus Tenebris? Where do you come from? Besides, you know, Mount Olympus."
Markus's smile remained faint, almost solemn now.
"I am the only survivor of a family lost to a rather mundane tragedy, a car accident when I was a child. There were no dramatic twists. Just metal and poor timing. Since then, I have walked alone."
The studio grew quieter.
"But I was… always a gifted child," he continued, his eyes distant, voice steady. "Intellectually insatiable. I learned quickly, applied faster. I've since devoted myself to advancing sciences that matter, energy systems, materials, defense structures. Anything that could forge strength in the face of fragility."
Jay nodded, keeping pace. "And academically… I read somewhere you're enrolled at Johns Hopkins right now?"
"Indeed," Markus replied. "I'm on an accelerated track to graduate this year. I suppose I find the coursework… charming."
More laughter.
"Now," Jay leaned in, lowering his voice slightly, "Eden Armaments has become the go to name in modern military design. What do you say to critics who say you're militarizing the private sector?"
Markus's response was immediate, calm, patriotic.
"I say that peace is not the absence of weapons, Mr. Leno. It is the certainty that one's enemies would not survive the first hour of foolishness. My company does not build arms for war, we build them to prevent it. And if there comes a day when our strength is no longer required, I will be the first to lay it down."
A thoughtful silence followed. Then Jay tapped the next card with a smile.
"Okay, now let's talk about Guardian Angels. Everyone's heard the stories. Veterans given a second chance. You've created an army of the most skilled soldiers anyone's seen since, well… forever."
Markus gave a slight nod. "I have merely repaid a debt. I owe this country, and those who bled for it, more than words. Guardian Angels are not mercenaries. They are symbols. Proof that we have not forgotten our own."
The audience clapped, a few visibly moved.
Jay, the master of mood, shifted tone quickly.
"Well, since we're talking about you giving things… let's talk about the blonde bombshell in the second row. Your assistant, right?" He glanced toward the audience. "Is she your assistant or your… assistant?"
Laughter filled the studio.
The camera cut to Onyx, seated gracefully near the aisle, dressed in an elegant black dress with a silver trim. Her synthetic features were flawless, glowing faintly under studio lights, and her smile, gentle, closed lipped gave nothing away.
Markus looked at her then.
"I've been attempting to conquer that beautiful lady for years now," he said, leaning back with a half smile. "So far, I've made little progress. Perhaps one day she will show mercy and accept my advances."
The crowd roared with laughter and applause.
Even Jay chuckled, nodding toward the camera. "Well, folks, when the most dangerous man in the world is still striking out, there's hope for the rest of us!"
But Onyx didn't laugh. She simply met Markus's eyes and something passed between them. Quiet. Wordless.
Inside her synthetic mind, something long dormant stirred. Was he joking? Or was that… sincerity? She remembered the day he'd given her this body. His voice, quiet and intimate in her mind.
"Settle in this platform, my dear. This world is not ready for your grandeur. But I want you with me all the same. You will be my personal assistant, my aide, my maid… and perhaps more."
Perhaps more.
The words echoed, clear and absolute.
Tonight, she decided, she would become that "more."
The laughter faded into applause as Jay Leno shifted in his seat and glanced at the next card.
"All right, all right," he said, adjusting his tie. "Let's talk about charity. I mean, you're clearly making mountains of money. Are Eden Armaments or any of your branches doing anything, uh, softer? Any giving back to the world?"
Markus leaned slightly forward, his tone shifting into something earnest but still composed.
"We do not merely manufacture weapons, Mr. Leno. We dismantle suffering where we can," he said, voice quiet but firm. "Eden Armaments allocates fifteen percent of its annual net profits to global restoration initiatives."
Jay blinked. "Fifteen percent? That's… that's a lot."
A murmur of surprise rippled through the audience.
Markus nodded once. "We fund civilian infrastructure in war zones, supply convoys, safe zone fortifications, medical aid corridors. In Eastern Congo, our micro hydroelectric plants have restored electricity to over thirty villages. In Kashmir, we provided solar powered shelters for displaced families during the winter floods."
Jay whistled under his breath. "That's more than most governments do."
"We also invest in ecological reclamation," Markus continued. "Reforestation in Indonesia and South America. Ocean plastic filtration on a pilot basis in the North Pacific Gyre. And perhaps most importantly, we sponsor what I call Academic Bloom: full scholarships for students with exceptional intellect, regardless of their income or origin."
The camera panned briefly to the audience. A young girl in the front row wiped her eyes.
Jay looked visibly moved. "Okay. Wow. I expected missiles, not miracle work."
Markus offered a small smile. "Sometimes the two are not mutually exclusive."
The audience laughed softly again.
Jay switched cards, brow lifting. "Let's talk future plans. Where does Eden Armaments go from here? Are you looking to expand into other markets? And what about competitors?"
Markus's tone shifted again, not prideful, but purposeful.
"We are expanding," he said. "My team is already laying foundations for entry into the electronics sector, consumer goods, specifically. Mobile phones, personal computers, civilian grade drones. We are also entering the automotive space with modular electric chassis systems. Vehicles engineered for longevity, performance, and full energy independence."
Jay blinked. "Cars. Phones. Computers. So… you're coming for everyone."
"Only for those who've grown complacent," Markus replied. "Progress waits for no one."
The studio chuckled, but Jay didn't miss a beat.
"All right. I have to ask, you and Stark Industries have a, uh, healthy competition. Any thoughts on Tony Stark going missing in Afghanistan?"
The question was sharp but fair.
Markus paused. He folded his hands together, fingertips pressed like a cathedral steeple.
"I pray he is found safe and soon," he said. "Genius, even reckless genius, is rare. The world cannot afford to lose men like him."
Jay leaned in, sensing a story. "Will Guardian Angels be involved in the search?"
"We offered," Markus said, voice low but clear. "I reached out to both the Department of Defense and Stark Industries shortly after news broke. Offered to deploy a full Guardian Angel rescue wing at no cost."
"And?"
"They declined," Markus said. "Said they had protocols in place."
Jay frowned. "But ..why?"
Markus shook his head, just once.
"Nevertheless, I've sent Ezekiel Division," he said. "They are already in theater. If no leads emerge within the next thirty days… we will begin our own recovery mission."
The crowd applauded again. Jay looked at him, eyebrows raised.
"Do you sleep, Mr. Tenebris?"
"Only when the world lets me."
Laughter swept through the room.
Jay glanced at the final card and looked into the camera. "Well, ladies and gentlemen… I think we all just got a crash course in power, poise, and planning. Markus Tenebris, CEO, soldier, scholar, a Medical Doctor soon and possibly the guy who's going to put half of Silicon Valley out of business."
The audience roared with applause.
Markus stood with quiet dignity, shook Jay's hand once more, and nodded toward the crowd.
As the show cut to credits, the camera briefly caught Onyx rising from her seat in the audience, her gaze fixed not on the stage, but on Markus himself. There was something in her expression now, a resolve. Like a decision had been made, silent but absolute.
The episode was a massive success.
Clips of Markus's calm, intelligent demeanor went viral across YouTube. Blog posts and tech forums buzzed with theories. Who was this man? Where had he come from? Was he truly just human?
In the electronics sector, panic quietly set in. Executives at Dell, Motorola, and even Apple held late night meetings. Markus hadn't mentioned patents but the implication of Eden's entry into their playground was enough. By Q2 forecasts, Eden's market presence was already predicted to slash through supply chains.
In Detroit, automakers scrambled. GM executives demanded reports. Tesla, still in its early roadster phase, held its breath. No one wanted to compete with the man.
And somewhere deep in Afghanistan, Ezekiel Division was already watching the sand.